


four times derek was there, one time he wasn't, and one time he came back

by sourwofls



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, brief mentions of other relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourwofls/pseuds/sourwofls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stiles is pretty sure that something is wrong with him, or maybe wrong with derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	four times derek was there, one time he wasn't, and one time he came back

**Author's Note:**

> this didn't turn out _anything_ like i planned. contains mentions of stiles/malia and derek/braeden.

**four times derek was there...**

_(one)_

   Stiles is pretty sure that something is wrong with him, or maybe wrong with Derek. That’s the only explanation he can come up with for why Derek is sitting placidly on his stupid battered couch while Stiles raids his fridge, grumpily piling all of the leftovers he can find into one arm while the other rifles. There’s Chinese and pizza and something that looks vaguely moldy in the back of the fridge, so Stiles takes the first two and leaves the gross crap. Derek can deal with that himself. Stiles takes his bounty to the other side of the couch and viciously stabs a fork he’d unearthed from Derek’s dusty cabinet into congealed noodles.

   He isn’t really hungry, but that isn’t the point. He just wants to be violent towards something, and it’s either the noodles or Scott’s stupid, dumb face. It’s not even that Stiles is really upset with Scott, when it comes down to it -- he understands that this is a rare chance, something Scott has been waiting for for months: the opportunity to sit down with Allison and talk through their differences.

   It’s just that ever since they did the ritual with Deaton, Stiles has been feeling the darkness more than he’d like to admit. More than Scott and Allison, certainly. All summer it’s been building, a tight constriction in his chest that Stiles obsesses over daily. He can almost feel the nemeton in his head, and Stiles hadn’t been sure it was worth mentioning to Scott, but his mother’s face had appeared in his mind’s eye: _‘Secrets don’t make friends, Przemysław.’_

   And so he had texted Scott, told him he had something important to tell him, and Scott had agreed that Stiles should come over so they could talk. Stiles had showed up on time, but Scott had conveniently forgotten in favor of rushing out to meet Allison for dinner, and Melissa was at work, so Stiles ended up sitting on the McCall’s front step for an hour waiting.

   It’s such a Scott thing to do, something he would have done when he first started dating Allison, that Stiles is having a hard time actually being angry. He’s glad for Scott, and while he isn’t sure that Allison and Scott are forever, he does know that they love each other. They should be together. Stiles knows that in a few hours he’ll get a text from Scott apologizing and they’ll have a bro night and everything will be fine. Right now, though, he stabs at the noodles angrily while Derek watches.

   Derek is eerily calm, sitting cross-legged facing Stiles on the couch with a book in his lap, and he hasn’t said a word since Stiles barged into the loft thirty minutes ago. That’s pissing Stiles off too, because he’s used to Derek pushing back against everything that he does and to see him sitting complacently irks Stiles.

   “What?” He demands finally, stabbing his fork in Derek’s direction. “Haven’t you ever seen a man enjoy noodles?” Derek snorts, finally moving to rub a hand over the back of his neck.

   “You’re not enjoying them, you’re murdering them.” He says drily, and Stiles scoffs. Derek goes back to reading his book, and it’s… good.

   Huh.

_(two)_

   Stiles thinks that he might be dying. He’s losing time like nobody’s business, his head hurts constantly, and he can’t sleep. When he does manage to sleep, he has nightmares. There’s a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind that this has to do with the nemeton and the darkness, but another part of him whispers that this is how it started with his mom, and Stiles… Stiles can’t deal with that, so he goes to Derek’s.

   He must look as shitty as he feels, because Derek opens the door, takes one look at him, and sends him to the shower. Stiles doesn’t even argue. It feels weirdly good to have someone looking out for him. His dad is busier than ever at the station, and Scott is caught up with Allison and Isaac in some weird three-way that Stiles really doesn’t need the details on. He feels alone, and isolated.

   The water pressure in the loft is surprisingly good, and Stiles wastes almost an hour using up all of Derek’s hot water. Stiles didn’t even know Derek had hot water in this dump. In retrospect, Derek is kind of a creature of comfort. The stint living in the woods and an abandoned train car might imply otherwise, but Stiles has seen the sheets on his bed and the stupidly soft sweatpants that Derek favors when he’s at home.

   When Stiles gets out of the shower, there’s a towel on the sink waiting for him. It’s even warm, like Derek draped it over a radiator or put it in the dryer, and Stiles cannot deal with the mental image. He knows that Derek is hot like burning, okay, he isn’t blind, but if Derek is nice too, well. Stiles isn’t sure he can deal with that.

   His old clothes have disappeared and there’s nothing else, so Stiles wraps the towel around his waist and walks out into the living room, feeling weirdly timid. Derek is sitting on the couch, book in hand, and he looks up when Stiles approaches.

   His eyes follow the path of a drop of water down Stiles’ chest, and Stiles tries not to blush. He feels exposed, suddenly, and it isn’t just the fact that he’s mostly naked.

   “Clothes are over there.” Derek says, gesturing, and Stiles makes for the relative privacy of Derek’s sleeping area, relieved. The clothes belong to Derek, and they’re warm too. Stiles slips on the sweatpants and the shirt and ignores the way it’s baggy on him and smells faintly of pine. He goes back to the couch, tugging on the hem of the shirt awkwardly.

   “Thanks.” Stiles mutters, looking anywhere but Derek’s face.

   “Come here.” Stiles looks up. Derek is staring at him intently. Stiles isn’t sure what he sees on Stiles’ face, but whatever it is, he seems satisfied by it. “Come here.” He repeats, softer, and Stiles is helpless against that tone of voice, what the hell.

   He comes, sits next to Derek, and to his surprise, Derek wraps an arm around him. He goes back to his book immediately, as if Stiles in his space and leaning on his chest is normal, and Stiles… he feels safe, feels like his skin fits for the first time in months. It doesn’t take long at all for him to drift off to sleep.

_(three)_

   Stiles wakes up and he has no idea where he is.

   At least, he doesn’t at first. He blinks a few times, staring up at the familiar ceiling of Derek’s loft, and tries to remember how he got here. He can tell by the silkiness of the sheets that he’s in Derek’s bed, and he doesn’t remember even coming to Derek’s. Stiles turns over, and there’s Derek, asleep beside him. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and his mouth is open and slack in sleep. He looks like every fantasy Stiles has ever had come to life, but Stiles doesn’t remember why he's here.

   He’s well on his way to a panic attack when he hears Derek go “Stiles?” in a sleepy, confused voice. His eyes are open now, green in the light of the rising sun, and he looks rumpled and beautiful.

   “How did I get here? What happened? I’m --” Stiles is probably well on his way to a panic attack, but Derek sits up and touches his arm carefully.

   “You showed up here last night,” he says calmly, “ranting about a fox. I put you to bed and called your dad. That’s it.” Stiles takes a deep breath, and then another one, relaxing into the mattress. He isn’t sure why Derek is going through so much trouble to help him and be nice to him, but he’d be lying if said he didn’t appreciate it. It makes Stiles feel loved, which is stupid and dangerous.

   “I’m getting worse.” He says finally, picking at the blanket idly. “Dad’ll probably put me in the hospital soon.” He knows, objectively, that he should be freaking out about it, but that’s hard to do when Derek is staring at him half asleep but still listening attentively, like everything that Stiles says matters.

   “You’ll be fine.” Derek says, confidently. Stiles is a little surprised at the show of faith, and he must look it, because Derek colors pink (Derek Hale? Blushing?) and looks away, hands folded behind his head and gaze trained at the ceiling.

   “You always figure something out.” He says finally, and, well. Yeah. He does.

_(four)_

   Stiles stares at Derek’s name over Lydia’s shoulder and he feels sick. Objectively he had known that Derek would be on it -- there are more supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills than Stiles originally thought, but there aren’t that many, and pretty much everyone seems to want Derek dead at some point. That fact that his name is on the deadpool shouldn’t be as shocking as it is.

   There are so many things that he needs to do, but the first thing that Stiles does is go to loft. He doesn’t expect to find Derek there, but he’s sitting on the stupid couch like it’s any other day. The only difference is he’s staring at his hands with something like horror.

   “What? What’s wrong?” Stiles asks immediately. Maybe later he’ll think back on the easy familiarity he uses when he sits on the couch and touches Derek’s shoulder, but in the moment all he can think is that Derek looks like someone has died. The urge to comfort is stronger than the embarrassment he’ll probably feel in a few hours.

   “I think I’m losing my powers.” Derek says, and he looks so broken-hearted that Stiles kind of wants to hug him, so he does: tucks Derek’s head under his chin and wraps him in his arms like it’s totally normal. At this point, maybe it is.

   “Is that even possible?” Stiles asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Derek heaves a big sigh, sounding put-upon, but Stiles doesn’t take it personally.

   “Apparently so.” He says instead. He snuggles into Stiles’ chest, and Stiles isn’t thinking about Malia or Braeden or the fact that people are dying. He’s thinking about Derek.

   He’s still thinking about Derek when they kiss for the first time five minutes later.

**one time he wasn’t…**

 

_(one)_

   “I can’t believe you left.” Stiles collapses onto the battered couch in the center of the loft and stares up at the ceiling. It’s only been a few hours since they returned from Mexico, and Stiles’ heart is still pounding with adrenaline. He can’t believe that it’s finally over -- the deadpool, and Kate, and Peter. Nothing seems real yet, and he probably has a few days before reality sets in. One thing is pretty real though: Derek is gone, so Stiles is bitching at no one.

   The loft feels different without Derek in it. Not as safe as Stiles is used to feeling, despite everything that’s happened in the concrete walls. The last time he was here he and Derek were kissing, and now Derek is gone, off in the desert with Braeden. Stiles doesn’t like admitting it, but it stings. He had thought -- well, it doesn’t really matter what he thought now, does it?

   “You’re a fucking asshole.” He says, throwing a pillow. It hits the bookcase and falls to the ground. Stiles doesn’t feel any better. His phone is vibrating in his pocket, probably someone in the pack looking for him. Probably Scott.

   He ignores it, and stays on the couch for a long time.

 

**...and one time he came back.**

 

_(+ one)_

   Stiles isn’t surprised that Malia moved on, because they weren’t really dating so much as kissing and trying to acclimatize her to living as a human. It seems weird to say now, after he spent so much time wanting to have sex and have a girlfriend and get to do all the typical couple things, but he’s glad she found someone else. Malia is great, and Stiles is… hung up.

   He has to admit it to himself now, because here he is in Derek’s empty loft, sitting on the couch and hugging the same stupid pillow that he threw a month ago. Stiles is self-aware enough to admit that he was probably in love with Derek, is still in love with him. It doesn’t matter now.

   “I love you.” He mutters darkly, squeezing his eyes shut. Bizarrely, he feels like crying.

   “You do?” The voice is soft and unmistakable. Stiles turns, and there’s Derek in the doorway, tan and beautiful. His face is raw, and he’s staring at Stiles like he’s never seen him before. Stiles thinks that he could deny it, that Derek would let it go. He doesn’t want to.

   “Yeah. I do.” He says, defiant. “Where’s Braeden?” He asks, meanly. The knot of jealousy in his chest tightens up.

   “Gone. Somewhere. East, I think.” Derek says, moving towards the couch. He drops a duffle bag onto the floor. “Say it again.” He demands, standing in front of Stiles.

   “I love you.” Stiles says, immediately. Now that he’s admitted it to himself, the words won’t seem to stop. “I love you, I love you, you’re a fucking idiot and I hate you but I love you --” He’s silenced by Derek’s mouth on his, warm and wet and like a promise.

   “I love you too.” Derek says, pressing his forehead against Stiles’. His eyes are warm and smiling. Stiles wouldn’t have believed Derek could look like that not long ago. He knows better now.

   “You do?” He whispers, hating the way his voice cracks, how his insecurities claw at his chest. Derek kisses him again.

   “Yeah. I do.”

   It’s hard to hold back, then, to keep himself from dragging Derek to the bed. Stiles tries for a moment, and then he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Stiles stands and drags Derek by the hand to the bed. The blankets are messed up, because Stiles couldn’t help himself and slept in the loft a few times, nose buried in Derek’s pillow and pretending he was nearby, sitting on the couch with a book like always. Derek turns the tables on him, though, pushes him onto the bed and crawls over him, predatory. Stiles isn’t afraid.

   They’re kissing, again. It’s better than it’s ever been before, Derek’s stubble scraping at Stiles’ cheeks. He’ll probably have beard burn for days. Stiles can’t even bring himself to be mad. He’s so stupidly happy. His dick is happy too, raising up and straining against his fly. Derek grinds down once, twice, and Stiles almost comes in his pants.

   “Pants, off.” Stiles pants, and Derek wastes no time shucking his down enough to get his dick out and then doing the same to Stiles. Derek has a beautiful dick, long and thick and Stiles wants that everywhere, in his mouth and his ass as many times as humanly possible, but right now he’s too desperate.

   Derek kisses him again, sloppy and rough, and takes them both in his hand. The friction is almost too rough. Stiles closes his eyes against the sparks of _pleasurepain_ shooting up his spine, buries his face in Derek’s neck.

   “Look at me.” Derek says, voice rough. Stiles closes his eyes tighter. “Stiles, baby, look at me.” Derek murmurs again. It’s the ‘baby’ that does it, soft and gentle and nothing Stiles has ever heard from Derek before. He opens his eyes.

   “There you are.” Derek says, smiling. His hand around them strokes faster, slicked with precome. Stiles can feel the orgasm building in the base of his spine, warm and tingling. It’s so much -- he can’t even be embarrassed about how fast it’s going to be.

   When he comes, Derek lets go and leans back, straddling Stiles’ legs with a grin. He pushes Stiles’ shirt up to his armpits and starts jacking himself. Stiles can tell what he’s thinking immediately.

   “Do it,” he hisses, cock giving a valiant twitch, “come on me.” Derek groans and does, shooting thick stripes onto Stiles’ stomach. He collapses next to Stiles, self-satisfied. His eyes are warm and soft again. Stiles wants to look away, but he doesn’t. He feels kind of ridiculous, pants around his knees and cooling come on his stomach, but it’s not bad.

   “Are we boyfriends now?” He asks, and immediately regrets it. It sounds childish to his ears, but Derek leans forward and kisses him again.

   “Whatever you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr. ](http://stileshaale.tumblr.com)


End file.
